


the dreadful need in the devotee (the Orpheus role swap remix)

by CGotAnAccount



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, SHEITH - Freeform, Sheith Remix 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CGotAnAccount/pseuds/CGotAnAccount
Summary: “As many times as it takes.” Keith had once said, smiling down at Shiro in the tent they had shared. He'd been so sure then, not needing the false bravado of the other soldiers around them, not when they had each other and the promise of forever.





	the dreadful need in the devotee (the Orpheus role swap remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [at the crossing of two heart roads, there is no temple for apollo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16862905) by [spookyfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot). 



“As many times as it takes.” Keith had once said, smiling down at Shiro in the tent they had shared. He'd been so sure then, not needing the false bravado of the other soldiers around them, not when they had each other and the promise of forever.

Shiro thinks of that moment often, the way the sunlight filtered through the canvas in the morning, how gentle Keith's fingers were as they wrapped the bandages around Shiro's torso, the soothing pressure of the kiss laid on his brow when he was done... he's not sure if the memory keeps him sane or drives him mad at this point.

At night the scene bleeds red, like the wound that cleaved through Keith's shoulder as he threw himself between Shiro and the blade. It should not have been fatal, just a rending of meat and shattered bone easily tended - no fountain of lifeblood spilled from him that night.

Until the fever set in.

Dark lines creeping through his veins, the wound's edges tinged green as Shiro held a poultice and brushed hair from a sweaty forehead, teeth grit in agony as he prayed to gods that were no longer there.

And then nothing. A limp hand falling away from his own in the night, one last breath of his name on cracked lips – an utterance of devotion that crossed the veil of death. A glimmering ring that comes to rest in his lap, no longer warmed from inside.

The war ends similarly, with a last gasp and uneasy silence, punctuated only by the weeping of those left behind. But he had been long gone by then. No cause left, no one to protect, only one thing left worth fighting for... but how do you fight death itself?

Nearly a year of searching has brought him little more than rumors – whispers of places that mortals do not tread. None tell of how to get there, only the vaguest allusions to constellations long fallen from the sky, suns cast down during great wars like so many avenging angels, tasked to wreak havoc on the battlefields of men. Sometimes he wonders if one had been wielding the sword that pierced his heart, or if it's all just a tale for children and the superstitious. Either way he can't risk skepticism now, not when his wanderings have brought him so far, to old cathedrals and caves carved with stars unknown – like so many shattered fragments of pottery just waiting to be pieced together.

And Shiro has always been a patient man.

The pieces lead him to the heart of a forest, and from there into the depths of pitch and stone, ripe with natural fangs coming from the walls to devour him soul and all. A hand smoothing down the unyielding surface, a gasp of a breath, the dripping of blood – and the maw of hell itself yawns wide before him.

He descends.

His footsteps echo into the caverns, kicking up puffs of dust as whispers like cobwebs catch his face. Some sound familiar, a caress on his senses – others the hiss of a sword in a scabbard, or the ever present lament of those trapped below, kept down by the river, placid even as it teems with the dead.

Deceptively clear for something so tainted. Clear and cold and brisk... and it has been a long journey. But the whispers tug at him more urgently, phantom hands tugging him back and away.

_It's not safe, my love._

He stumbles onward, unable to deny the voice, as ever. His steps drag now, heavier as he goes – as if the weight of the earth above him does its best to remind of its presence – but there is light in the distance. A dock with a single lantern, glowing from flame unseen as it hangs from a small ship, bow carved like the head of a lion. If nothing else, it is as good a place to rest as any.

It drifts away down the river as if possessed by a spirit of its own and the rocking lulls him, casting him into dreams of better times. Visions of golden fields, not yet pillaged as they raced through tall stalks of wheat, laughter on the wind as it whips through their hair. Dreams of hands stretching out to catch the sleeve of a falcon as he soars, tackling him down to earth in a pile of giddy limbs that drift into smiling kisses exchanged between breaths. There's a glimmer behind his eyelids, maybe the lantern casting shadows on the walls, maybe the golden sun glinting off the ring as he slides it up a trembling finger, one word whispered down to his own pleading heart.

_Yes._

The rocking ceases, jerking as hands unseen scrabble at the oars, threatening to dash him against the rocks – but Shiro did not come here to join his love, it is not yet their time. His hands clasp the wooden ends and heave, cleaving through the now churning river with a vengeance. He will not be stopped, determined to bend the river to his will as it funnels him through the center of one stone archway before sending him tumbling down... down... into the water, into the grasping hands, covering his nose and mouth as he struggles.

_It is not your time._

Resolve surges through him as he casts himself to shore, clawing at the earth as hands grasp for the ends of his cloak. The boat floats in pieces, dashed against the rocks behind him. He hauls himself to his feet and does not look back. Merely follows the light before him – a lantern? With flame unseen... hanging from the bow...

No... bobbing in the doorway ahead. Had the doorway not been carved with a lion? Though now it is no more than a circle – a circle of a room that whirls endlessly, the exits blurring as he staggers to the edge, mind spinning with it.

_Patience yield focus._

The whispers must mock him, parroting the words that had not saved... who? The words that elude him, belonging to a life long before this whirling of his mind.

His stumbling leads him to the edge toward a door that is - was? Is no longer.

The room whirls on, and with it his tenuous grasp on sanity.

Each attempt drains him more than the last, no matter how he runs to the door that he can see spinning and spinning around him – if he could just catch the tips of his fingers on the frame then perhaps, perhaps...

He trips - lies dizzy from the spinning... though here in the center of the room it seems to disappear. It would be so easy to close his eyes and let the whirling cease along with his will to carry on. Idle fingers trace circles in the floor by his prone form, spinning and spinning ever outward.

Until they catch.

The roughened edge of the mechanism, hidden by a dip in the floor he had stumbled over countless times. He rolls his neck enough to see it clearly, a jagged line etched into the floor with a catch, easily flipped open to expose to insides.

A snarl of sudden rage, a curl of fingers into the machinery, and a swift tug.

A cascade of sparks, and the room stops – silent save for the whispers in his mind, pleased now.

Crawling to his feet, Shiro staggers onward through the door... and into nothingness.

He falls.

Time loses meaning as the nothingness whips past him. Bursts of color that cannot be in the pitch of endless night, bursts that are perhaps only behind his eyelids – though he cannot tell if they are open or shut.

_Patience._

Nothingness, and then a stone floor. A throne of skulls pulsing gold and violet in the darkness. A queen of the damned on that throne, head tilted in interest.

“You are not dead.”

It's as much an accusation as a question, and Shiro finds he cannot confirm or deny. Is he not? Did he not die that day along with his soul? Has he not been but a husk this entire time?

Perhaps he is alive in name only.

“I seek my beloved.” The voice that crawls from his throat is hoarse from disuse, no more than a croak, but her golden eyes flash in understanding anyway.

“I see.” Her skeletal form leans forward, silver hair gleaming in the light of the throne. “And what do you have to offer for him?”

Shiro lifts his arms, palms outstretched. “Myself.”

“Tch.” Eyes narrow at his offering. “A replacement?” She shakes her head, dropping her chin on one clawed hand. “No... then I will only be seeing your beloved again in a year's time.”

His heart clogs his throat. “I have nothing else to give.”

“No...” Claws tap upon brittle skin as a smirk crawls across her face. “I think you do.” She straightens, hands grasping the arms of her throne as it flares. “I will offer you this – a year of servitude from you, equal to the year I have had your beloved.” Her smile widens, rows of sharp teeth flashing in the light. “Should you survive the year, you both go free.”

The words are too good to be true.

“You would let us go for time served, in truth?” Shiro forces himself to ask, though he fears offending the goddess. “Why?”

Her smile dims, losing its cruel edge even as her eyes slit again.

“Do not mistake my offer for weakness.” A shadow passes over her face as fingers tighten on the throne. “I too have known love... I too have had it ripped away.” A shake of the silver mane and the bladed grin is back. “And I do love a gamble... I doubt you will survive the year.”

Shiro is not fool enough to challenge her on that, merely holding out his hand instead.

“An oath then?”

Sweeping from the dais, she descends on him – dagger flashing from her sleeve as he stands unflinching. A neat cut across his palm, sealed to its twin on hers, and it is done.

A year for a year, far more generous than he had expected.

* * *

 

Of course, no bargain is ever that easy with the queen of the damned.

He finds his year of servitude as a plaything in the pits – a gladiator made of flesh and blood to entertain the legions of the underworld.

First he loses the flesh across his face, then his arm. They replace it with a grotesque parody made of bone and magic, claw-tipped and glowing. He repays them by tearing through their legions, earning the name of champion.

He loses his soul.

He does not lose the whispers.

Sometimes they call his name, brush across his skin, stir his hair like the wind that cannot penetrate these stone walls. Sometimes they weep, mourn his lost humanity.

He isn't sure what he is anymore. He isn't sure how long it has been. He is only sure of one thing.

_Shiro._

He's fighting for something – for someone – and he cannot lose.

The routine becomes numbing. Wake, fight, slay, drink the gold and violet sludge that keeps him alive, sleep, repeat.

The faces of the slain blur together. The fights become a river of blood staining him, drowning him, endless.

He does not lose.

Then the routine changes. He is pulled from his quarters, painted in violet and gold and thrown into the ring. The guards slap him on the back with their skeletal fingers, congratulate him on making it a year, their dry lips rattling out platitudes – that they will miss him, that they hope he will come back when it is his time.

And it dawns on him – he has made it to the end of his year of servitude, one year of blood and ruin ended, one fight separating him from... something.

The fingers on his ruined arm flex in anticipation... this will not take long.

The arena is a roar of sound as he steps in, spectators half in violet and half in red. Soon the arena floor will be stained to match the losers.

His opponent stalks from the opposite side, masked in red and black, blades twirling.

Shiro wastes no time charging in, hand bursting into sizzling fury as he descends upon his foe, face contorted in a feral snarl.

His opponent startles, hesitates.

“Shiro?”

Shiro does not. Claws rake toward the mask, looking to make quick work of the skull behind it, but the blade elongates, flashes upward, and twists him to the side.

“Shiro!”

Whirling back to face his foe, Shiro makes another pass – uncaring of the queen's tricks, of this fool that stands before him, palms raised as if Shiro will be stopped now.

“Shiro please!”

Claws feint toward the mask again, batted away predictably by one blade as his other hand crushes into the red mask. The man whimpers, head snapping back even as a foot strikes out to catch Shiro in the middle of his chest, forcing him back.

The mask falls away, pale skin and dark eyes underneath. A familiar spectre ripping off the shattered pieces even as Shiro lunges again.

“Please, I don't want to hurt you!”

Pretty words. A trick. He will not give in, not now. Not on this last day of servitude. Not when he is so close... to what?

Claws catch the shoulder this time, a graze that rips open just armor, laying bare an old wound.

_A deadly wound._

The whispers clouding his mind blind him to the pommel that slams into the side of his skull, rattling his resolve even as the lithe figure darts out of range, panting raggedly, eyes pleading.

“Shiro it's me, Keith!”

The words burn inside his head, searing into the haze of pain and bloodlust, trying to rip away everything that he's fought for... killed for... he cannot fail now.

But the figure lowers his weapons as Shiro pauses, turning his palms up again.

“Shiro, I know you're in there.”

He's a fool, stepping closer as Shiro lets his shoulders go slack, lowering his weapons...

And then Shiro lunges, flesh arm battering him into the ground as the crowd roars its approval. His claws sear the air as they swipe down, caught at the last moment by one of the blades.

“Shiro please!” The dead man gasps out, eyes filling with tears. “I love you!”

Those words in that voice scream from the depths of his mind, roaring into him like the sea of whispers that kept him company for so long.

Those words spoken like a prayer in the middle of a field.

Those words whispered into the night tinged with the edge of a gasp.

Those words choked out on one last heaved breath before going cold.

Those words will not stop him. Cannot stop him. He cannot fail now.

Claws descend with renewed vigor as a snarl rips from Shiro's throat, heat melting the flesh of that familiar jaw.

Eyes flash, teeth elongate.

A second blade comes alive, cleaves through Shiro's arm as he's kicked backward.

Agony. Failure.

_No._

A pair of blades embed themselves into the sand as Shiro's ragged gasps fill the suddenly silent arena.

His foe drops to his knees.

“Shiro...”

A pair of dark eyes swim into focus as Shiro's head clears for the first time in a year. The man pulls off his gloves, ring glinting in the torch light.

A ring to match the one he cannot bear to lose.

“Keith?”

A ragged gasp, relieved exaltation.

Then darkness.

 

* * *

 

He falls, through the nothing. Through the bursting colors. Perhaps this time he is actually dead.

He did fail, in the end.

Then the stone floor, again. The vivid light of the throne, the click of claws tapping.

...The hands cradling his face?

“He has given you a year.” A rough voice soothes his ears, safe - perhaps Shiro has earned his place in Elysium. “You swore an oath.”

The tapping slows, then stops. “I suppose I did.” The light flickers behind Shiro's closed eyelids as footsteps clack closer. “He has served me well... as have you.”

The fingers tighten on his jaw. “Then you will release us?”

A clawed hand settles on his chest, startling Shiro's eyes open. The queen looms above him, terrible and glorious. The man – Keith – cradles him from below, coiled to spring.

“I will.” Cold light erupts from her hand, blinding them both. “Though I will see you again... when it is your time.”

Then the light fades into gloom, gloom into haze, haze into the dappling of sun on a carpet of grass.

Shiro startles upright with a gasp, head whipping as he tries to activate a clawed hand that isn't there - nothing remains but the memory of agony and the stump of his shoulder, not a scar to remember it now.

A groan sounds to his left, stirring in the grass.

Shiro hardly dares to turn, hardly dares to breathe.

“Shiro?” A croak, familiar and wondering, accompanied by a trembling hand cupping his cheek. “Shiro... are we?”

Nothing but a ragged sob escapes him as he envelopes his beloved, cradling him gently as he breathes in the scent of inky hair.

Alive.

“We are.” Shiro sighs into the crown of Keith's head, arms shaking around him. “It's good to have you back.”

Keith's fingers curl into the worn fabric of his husband's tunic, grounding himself as he breathes in the fresh air. He tips his chin up and presses a kiss to the skin over a hammering pulse.

“It's good to be back.”

 

 


End file.
